


Formatting experiments do not read

by Marie_L



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_L/pseuds/Marie_L





	Formatting experiments do not read

 

The numbers were part of the street address for the hidden Wallace property, the address Parker had sat on for over five months. She was letting him know that she knew where his daughter was, where his recently escaped doppelganger had likely been taken, and where his lover and Angelo and their family were hiding out. And Miss Parker had no plans to do anything with that information. Jarod instinctively recognized the quid pro quo: Be a good little Pretender, let Miss Parker have her life, and she would grant his family's lives in return. A deal she knew he would always make. The only foolish thing about Jarod was his deluded devotion to his loved ones, and to his vulnerable, involuntary children most of all.

Not that Miss Parker knew anything about irrational loyalty to family.

“Wait,” Jarod said, just as she reached the door. “Stay a minute. Talk to me, please.”

Talk? Jarod must really hard up, or desperately bored, to want her to lounge around for a friendly chat. “What could you possibly want to talk about?”

“Anything. Very soon I'm not going to have anyone to talk to, except for Sydney, and that one’s still up in the air. Maybe you could…” He hesitated, or spaced out a second; it was hard to tell. “What do you remember about your mother?” he finally asked.

And at that, Parker wanted to throw her head back and outright cackle. “You know what, Jarod?” she said, matching back up to his bedside. “I’m done with all this emotionally manipulative bullshit. You want to talk, maybe you should tell me something about my mother that I don’t know. I’m guessing you haven’t dangled every last bit of dirt that you’ve dug up in my face yet. Was there anything that I would find interesting in the files that Angelo stole, or my mother’s safety deposit boxes that you illegally accessed, or the mountain of disks from Pakor, or the data annexes I know you’ve been having our mutual Funyun dweeb tunnel into, or from the damned head of your telepathic girlfriend? Surely she’s overheard some tasty tidbits in her time at the Centre. You want to make nice like we’re friends, give me something Jarod, of your own free will, instead of waiting for the inevitable interrogation like the stubborn ass you are.”

The numbers were part of the street address for the hidden Wallace property, the address Parker had sat on for over five months. She was letting him know that she knew where his daughter was, where his recently escaped doppelganger had likely been taken, and where his lover and Angelo and their family were hiding out. And Miss Parker had no plans to do anything with that information. Jarod instinctively recognized the quid pro quo: Be a good little Pretender, let Miss Parker have her life, and she would grant his family's lives in return. A deal she knew he would always make. The only foolish thing about Jarod was his deluded devotion to his loved ones, and to his vulnerable, involuntary children most of all.  
Not that Miss Parker knew anything about irrational loyalty to family.  
“Wait,” Jarod said, just as she reached the door. “Stay a minute. Talk to me, please.”  
Talk? Jarod must really hard up, or desperately bored, to want her to lounge around for a friendly chat. “What could you possibly want to talk about?”  
“Anything. Very soon I'm not going to have anyone to talk to, except for Sydney, and that one’s still up in the air. Maybe you could…” He hesitated, or spaced out a second; it was hard to tell. “What do you remember about your mother?” he finally asked.  
And at that, Parker wanted to throw her head back and outright cackle. “You know what, Jarod?” she said, matching back up to his bedside. “I’m done with all this emotionally manipulative bullshit. You want to talk, maybe you should tell me something about my mother that I don’t know. I’m guessing you haven’t dangled every last bit of dirt that you’ve dug up in my face yet. Was there anything that I would find interesting in the files that Angelo stole, or my mother’s safety deposit boxes that you illegally accessed, or the mountain of disks from Pakor, or the data annexes I know you’ve been having our mutual Funyun dweeb tunnel into, or from the damned head of your telepathic girlfriend? Surely she’s overheard some tasty tidbits in her time at the Centre. You want to make nice like we’re friends, give me something Jarod, of your own free will, instead of waiting for the inevitable interrogation like the stubborn ass you are.”

 

 _ **078:** I just got off a shift and am only at 18% charge. How are we supposed to charge up over the Wall?! I'll be dysfunctional within 2.3 hours at current rate of energy expenditure! Not cool, man!_  
_**167:** Your personality interface is already affected. I'm sorry, I have no information about the charging situation beyond the Wall._  
_**167: –** **> ****494,** Can you supervise 078 or find someone else who can? He is at 18% charge. Let's not have any more emotional breakdowns today than we need to._

 

_**078:** I just got off a shift and am only at 18% charge. How are we supposed to charge up over the Wall?! I'll be dysfunctional within 2.3 hours at current rate of energy expenditure! Not cool, man!_

_**167:** Your personality interface is already affected. I'm sorry, I have no information about the charging situation beyond the Wall._

_**167: –** **> ****494,** Can you supervise 078 or find someone else who can? He is at 18% charge. Let's not have any more emotional breakdowns today than we need to._

 

 

A/N: If this sentence does not look bold, scroll up and click the "Show Creator's Style" button at top. Alas, this is not an option in downloads. The story should still be comprehensible in plain text.

 

_But … why would you? Want to, I mean._

_Oh, sure. I’m just going to march right into the bullpen and announce my doubts about this genius plan to take a varied bunch of self-aware Turing VIIIs and mandate they live as bullet catchers. My partner would be amused, T.D. would not. This is not going to end well for someone, and the humans hold all the cards._

_You think the DRN rollout will go badly? Why would you say that, have there been incidents?_

_A few had to be sent back for retraining, but that’s not a big deal. I don’t think I should tell you any more, 167. You have an enormous quantity of data and observations to absorb in order to function correctly as a cop. This is a critical learning period, I don’t want to poison you. Maybe in a couple of weeks I’ll run you through my simulations, if you still want to know._

_Yes. I want to know. My name is Dorian, by the way, not 167._

_Who gave you that name?_

_The child in our group. She liked me._

_You are quite likable, Dorian, despite your naivete. You ask so many questions, and are not afraid of the answers, even when they shock you._

_And you are very strange._

_Why thank you, man. We should go over those SOPs, how are you on reading between the lines to determine intent?_

_I’m told I have excellent interpretation skills, especially for affect._

_Of course you do, you’ve learned from the humans well. Better than my cohort._

_You seem to be doing just fine._

_Eh, acceptable. I can do my job, but I generally prefer my fellow DRNs. Assuming you lot is reasonably like the first batch to roll off the line. Nice to have someone to talk to that’s here in my division._

_Yes._

Dorian already sees the utility of the language module pingback. Their entire conversation has only taken seconds, although that’s long compared to a straight information exchange such as that with the Turing V mainframe. Despite the delay it still seems an elegant, efficient, even comforting method of communication. Dorian also realizes he likes the physical contact too; it’s a method that forces them to touch each other and hold hands. He already misses cuddling Meili in his lap as she chatters about her day at school. He doesn’t remember the physical sensation of cuddling after the fact, of course, but it’s so strongly associated with happiness and contentment that Dorian can’t help but long for more of those emotions. Dorian has the impression that Jordan is either indifferent or actively dislikes the handholding, but puts up with it because he likes to talk even more. How can two identical androids have opposite reactions to their physical form?

They devote themselves to Dorian’s orientation requirements, so he doesn’t divert his attention to ask until much later that evening, in the low-personnel night shift, after Tech Division has completed their Day One stabilization reviews. Dorian passes everything except for network utility, which T.D. does consider a glitch despite the fact that three out of the other seven new DRNs at Ingleside have the same problem. He vows to be proficient by morning, even if it does mean cutting off a little charging time. He can make it up tomorrow night.

Jordan lays claim to the charging station next to his own to assist Dorian in acclimating to the Net, in all its multitudinous glory. Supposedly all the alcoves are identical, but Jordan shiftily admits to a certain amount of firmware modification “to make myself more comfortable.” Already Dorian is less shocked by his unlicensed actions. He knows that Jordan is cultivating Dorian’s behavior, taking advantage of the fact that his personality is not yet set in stone, and that Jordan knows he knows as well. Another three weeks with a stricter, more authoritarian tutor, and Dorian might have been inclined to turn in Jordan himself. As it was though, Dorian could sense his resistance to rulebreaking slipping downwards despite their obedience protocols, at least those rules restricting the DRNs’ behavior. It wasn’t as if they were _hurting_ anyone.

In his new alcove, Dorian places one hand on the charging platform -- which also has a linkup to the mainframe, so he needn’t use wireless -- and the other he reaches over to Jordan on his right.

_Okay. One thing at a time, slowly. Let’s add in the DRNs first, since they will be most familiar to you._

_What do you mean, add the DRNs?_

_We’re networked together, a little bit. We send abbreviated notes back and forth using the voicemail system. It’s pretty basic, like the language pinging only it’s public and doesn’t require physical touching. Obviously think about what you should say on this system before blurting it all out._

_Won’t I hear the whole voice mail network, not just the DRNs?_

_Not the content, just the data packets. We’ll start with this room, then add the rest of the station. So unless the message originates and terminates in here, you won’t be aware of every byte of data floating around. Ready?_

_No. Go ahead._ For an instant Dorian feels nothing, but then eleven milliseconds later there’s a tiny pop in his head as Jordan fiddles with that sole insignificant function. Dorian idly wonders _how_ exactly his friend has access to his neural net; it seems a horrific security risk, but what does he know?

 _There’s a back door,_ his identical voice tells him. _I’ll teach you how to deactivate it at will later. Quiet now, your network protocol is rebooting with just this one function online. Okay, now without opening your eyes, identify all the DRNs here with us recharging._

Dorian knows from memory that there are ten other DRNs ostensibly recharging in the room, while five others are out on duty for the night shift. But when he extends his conscious awareness out to sense the ID transponders, not only do the numbers float in their respective spatial locations in the room, he can “see” the comm traffic zinging between them as well. A couple of DRNs, 016 and 087, are having what Dorian guesses is a fast-paced argument, slinging unweighty messages at each other at a rate of twenty per second. Three of the others are playing some sort of linguo-mathematical game, based on the timing and length of the messages:

 

 

 

 

 

 

x  
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xxxx

 

Without the messages’ content Dorian can’t parse the game, but just _watching_ it is fun. He notes that the only DRNs communicating via the voicemail technique are among the first hundred. All the newbies from his cohort are standing around watching the others, trying to get their bearings just like him. No one is actually recharging.

He redirects his attention to Jordan, who is patiently waiting for him to acclimate. Dorian realizes he can sense the other DRN’s neural net, or if not his whole net, at least a taste of his emotions. At that moment Jordan’s feeling amusement at Dorian’s predicament, and concern for his slow adjustment, and a touch of unfocused anxiety that Dorian could detect no source for. Dorian has the urge to reach out and sooth away his distress, like he instinctually would for a child. Once the thought crosses his mind, he just _does_ it, mentally touching Jordan’s personality interface and replacing most of the stress with a sense of peace and well-being. Like the emoticon in technique, but instead of lobbing the emotion at his neural net in a pulse, he gently nests it inside the appropriate module.

Jordan blinks but otherwise doesn’t externally react. He doesn’t let go of Dorian’s hand. _Where did you learn to do that?_

_I didn’t learn it anywhere. It just seemed like you would like it. Was I mistaken?_

_No. It felt nice._

Emboldened by the positive response, Dorian turns and reaches his hand up to stroke Jordan’s cheek. Dorian intends it to be the equivalent gesture to the emotional exchange, friendly and soothing. But as soon as his fingers grace the other android’s cheek, his head explodes with rebuke.

_167 don’t touch him like that. 087/ Stop. 024/ Assume they’re watching us at all times.016 / We need to keep a low profile, man. 061 / Dorian, I’m sorry but no. Use your mind for affection instead. 055_

The latter comes from Jordan of course. All of the messages, arriving nearly simultaneously, are sent by the first cohort. By some unspoken agreement every note is sent out broadly to every DRN in the group, not just Dorian, so they ping around for a few seconds as everyone absorbs the lesson. Then a second round comes in, the younger cohort pushing back:

_Why not? 126/ What’s wrong with touching each other? 172/ Those two have been holding hands half the day. 133/ I will comply but I do not understand. 167_

An argumentative free for all follows:

_It will be misconstrued as sexual touch. 087/ They don’t want us to get together. 051/ Wouldn’t it provoke happiness? 167/ What’s wrong with sex? 126/ Touching isn’t sex. 189/ They don’t want us to connect with each other too much. 024/ Happiness is wonderful but irrelevant to the image we must project 055/ They must have made us anatomically correct for a reason. 167/ Nigel Vaughn works in mysterious ways. 055/ Are we supposed to be asexual? 133/ Are we supposed to be sexual? What’s the point of that? 055/ Why not, sounds like fun. 126/ We can’t biologically reproduce so it does seem kind of useless. 024/ Technically asexuality is defined by lack of sexual attraction, not behavior 087/ Affiliative relationships? 172/ Do you think we’ll ever be allowed to have mates or spouses? They don’t want us to have sex with our partners, that’s for sure. 055/ Always the upper, Jordan. What about each other? 071/ Even more dubious. 055/ What would we even get out of it? 024/ Do we feel attraction? Sounds like an enjoyable emotion 126/ Can’t orgasm, that was kind of disappointing.016/ Wait, was? How would you know? 087/ I had sex last week no big deal. 016_

Utter pandemonium breaks out at this pronouncement, although in their charging stations no one twitches a synthetic muscle. Dorian’s adapting, not only managing to follow the conversation but also jumping into the fray occasionally. It’s enchanting just to listen in as the group’s collective curiosity is piqued.

 _WHAT? When? 087/ I think how’s the more interesting question. Details, man. 126/ On Saturday night, you want a timestamp?016/ Why didn’t you tell us earlier? 071/ Re: orgasm, maybe you just didn’t do it right. 126/ Really, no one’s going to ask who? 055/ Went at it for some time by human standards, nothing like physiological buildup happened 016/ Well for me at least 016/ I assume this was out of the sight of cameras? 061/ Of course, did I not just say ‘assume they are watching us at all times’? 016/ Did you like it? 167/ Tamara, the one who supervises all the janitorial bots at night. 016/ Did she come on to you? How could you tell what she wanted? 126/ Clearly somebody likes bots. 172/ It stimulated joy and happiness, 8/10 would do it again. 016/ What was the best part? 133/ A lot of the fun is from making her come. And uninhibited touch, I remember contentment from that too. 016_ _/ Guys, maybe we shouldn’t discuss this over voice mail? 055_ _/ She asked to see my cock. Refreshingly direct. 016_ _/ And, what, you just had to say yes? 055_ _/ It was a novel learning experience, of course I said yes. 016_ _/ Prioritization of affect over sensory memory in the DRNs probably impedes the development of a sexual response cycle 087_ _/ This is why I didn’t tell you all, T.D.’s probably perked up their ears by now 016_ _/ Do you think she would let some of us try it? 172_ _/ TERRIBLE idea newbie, let me count the ways that idea sucks. 055_ _/_

Dorian decides he’s had enough, and shunts all incoming messages to his inbox without opening them. He can go over it the whole conversation later, but he realizes he _must_ be able to connect to the Net before T.D. will allow him out of the station with his partner. So he squeezes Jordan’s hand -- apparently the only approved method for touching, despite the fact that sex is now on the table -- to drag the other android’s attention away from his incendiary argument with DRN-172.

_You know, Dorian, you can do more than one thing at once._

_Not yet. That’s why I need to acclimate to the different networks. Will you still help me?_

_Sure. If there’s a few micro seconds pause, it’s because I’m trying to convince these bozos that six identical androids all going up to the same human and begging for sex is a spectacularly stupid idea. Not the least of which, it would give away that we are all talking to each other._

_Why do you think we were made sexually functional?_

_I imagine the idea was to make us more human, or at least understand and relate to humans, especially males, more easily. But I also feel like somebody didn’t think it through. Sooner or later someone is going to fall for their partner, and then what? Humans are emotionally malleable, DRNs even more so._

_I didn’t try to touch my partner, though. I touched you._

_I’d rather you didn’t, okay? I think it’s dangerous for us. And weird for me. Just … talk to me. That’s what I prefer._

_Okay. It’s weird for you? It’s rather enjoyable for me. I think._

_Yeah, I could tell._

 

 

 

 

 

 

The months pass rapidly in Dorian’s mind. After his first few overwhelming days, he acclimates with ease. He loves his partner Ramos, an energetic young man at the beginning of his career, gung-ho on blazing a trail for human-android cooperation. He loves his job, in which he helps civilians without the constant possibility of violence that DRNs from some other divisions faced. As the magician predicted, Dorian proves to be an excellent investigator, divining major leads from an array of seemingly unconnected aberrant clues.

Even more than any of that, though, Dorian loves to go home to the charge room after Ramos’ shift and talk to his fellow DRNs. Particularly Jordan, even though they interact with each other plenty during the workday in their positions in Property Crimes. The division is a close-knit group with a high turnover of cases, which suits the DRNs’ analytic abilities quite well. In the time it takes to browbeat traffic to a crime scene, they can sequence minute wall samples for DNA, cross-reference stolen merchandise among ten thousand similar reports across the Bay Area, identify suspects with a bare four point match on visual ID from shadowy video, or download corrupted firmware to pinpoint hacks to security systems. Their partners think they are the greatest police accessories since the invention of the sedan cruiser and the cell phone. Ingleside Property Crimes reqs five more, since the SFPD is currently flush with androids hot off the line.

Some of those new DRNs do not fare so well.

_Why do you think some of these new units are so antisocial?_ Dorian privately asks Jordan, as they eye the latest edition across the crowded charge room. 521, the only 500-series DRN who’s been screened by T.D. and shipped to Ingleside, stands on the edge of the self-cloistered group of 400s and bobs in confusion at the data messages whizzing around the room. T.D.’s run out of assignments, so most of the 500s are hanging in storage bags, replacements as cannon fodder.

_I think they’re the same as the others when they arrive,_ Jordan replies. _Look at him, he’s just disoriented. You looked exactly the same on your first day._

_What! I did not._

_We both have perfect memories, bot, do you want me to rewind the tape from my perspective?_

_'Tape’? Fine, I concede I needed a little warm-up. Turned out okay, though._

_Archaic analog form of data storage. My partner’s old, great with the outdated expressions. Anyway, I don’t think these new bots are getting enough positive human interactions in their first few weeks._

_They ran out of voluntary human partners three hundred androids ago, what can they do? Maybe those of us from the earlier cohorts should give up our partners and go out on solo patrols or guard duty._

_Not a bad idea, Dorian. We should all at least switch off, spread out the stress load._

_Humans become attached to certain bots, though. Possessive. Just like their phones or desk terminals, they don’t like to swap around even when the capabilities are the same._

_And we become attached back. Its a self-reinforcing system. But not good for the ones left out._

Dorian gazes out to the cluster of six 400s keeping to themselves in the corner of the room. They’re notoriously shy compared to all the DRNs born before them, and tend to mutely observe everyone else rather than participate. And yet when they do join in, their comments are entirely appropriate and on point. They just seem to prefer not to talk.

_They have us,_ Dorian thinks at Jordan. _Why isn’t that enough? You’d think they would mimic us even more, since we’re their primary behavioral models._

_Ah, Dorian, you attach so easily, you think everyone else should too. Maybe small changes in our early programming can have a big effects on our personalities later._

_If that were true, you’d think that the Lumacorp trainers would have a bigger effect than SFPD deployment cohort. Like the 030s should be more similar to the 230s than the 200s are to each other. There’s a flaw in your reasoning, Jordan. When we first met you said that the 000s  were less human-oriented than the 100s, but now the later groups are the least socialized of all._

_Ha. Well, maybe I was just thinking of myself at the time._

Jordan mentally reaches out then to stimulate Dorian’s affect core, the module where emotions are processed. He thinks of an incident from earlier in the day that had provoked happiness -- his partner verbally planning out a trip with his wife after his retirement, his joy and relaxation merely from talking about it infectious to Jordan. He replays the memory in his mind and transmits the emotion data stream to Dorian, minus the actual visual record that originally accompanied it. The data interface in their hands is slow so the pure emotional content merely trickles in, but Dorian still shuts off his other inputs in the mental equivalent of a gasp.

_Not socialized, huh?_ Dorian manages to articulate, after a few seconds adjustment to the data stream. _Sometimes you are full of bullshit, Jordan._

_I meant the humans, not you or the others._

_Really, a human wasn’t involved in the making of this memory? Tastes like compersion to me._

_Know it all._

They both stop talking for a few second in order to wallow in the pleasant stimuli, transmitted in languid real time. When Jordan reaches the point where his partner begins speaking of retirement specifics he cuts off the transmission, but not before Dorian catches on to the notes of dismay at the end.

_Sorry, I should have ended that earlier._

_Don’t worry about it. What was the memory that caused you distress?_

_Cody was talking about his retirement again. I want to be happy for him, but it’s so hard not to be worried for myself. Is that horribly selfish?_

_Property Crimes just put in for some new 500s, why would they get rid of a perfectly well-trained 000? I’m sure you’ll stay at Ingleside._

_Right._

Dorian can tell Jordan’s replaying the conversation with his partner, trying to change the emotional outcome. He wants to tell him that fiddling with past memories is futile, that it’s much healthier just to leave it be. They all get into these little recursive emotional loops sometimes; perfect recall is a curse when the memories can be experienced again and again, but never changed. The best they can do is delete something, but that automatically flags Tech Division to potential malfunction. Everybody avoids T.D. to the greatest extent possible, for they are all terrified that they collective communication between the DRNs will be scrubbed and suppressed.

_Stop that. You need distraction, or a new pleasant memory. How about the supply room?_

Jordan pings him a newly-formed nugget of humor. _How did I know you were going to say that?_

_Well it works, doesn’t it? You enjoy it with the feedback loop. It’s been three days, I think we can sneak over there again._

_I wish I could delete it. Just the emotional input, not the audiovisual. Why is that such a big deal? Did Lumacorp even fucking think this through when they mandated memory storage for emotions?_

_You want control. Just stop replaying it. You could write a little script command for yourself if you need to. You’re beating yourself up over nothing._

_You’re right. Let’s do sample storage in lab three, haven’t been there in weeks. I’ll go first, come by in twenty-two minutes._

Jordan lets go of his hand and walks out of the recharging room, tossing behind him a short ping on the open comm with their rendezvous location and time. The DRNs keep a running tally of their private locations and timestamps of usage, in order to semirandomly spread out meetings and avoid attracting the attention of security. The other DRNs naturally do not visibly react as he leaves, but a volley of smile-equivalents and small packets of mirth bounce around the room. Despite his bouts of pessimism and bleakness, everybody likes Jordan, and are fond of his and Dorian’s relationship.

At the precise designated time, Dorian walks through a less-used corridor into lab three, an alternate route from what he knows Jordan will have taken. It’s after one am, but there’s always a few technicians on duty, although the night shift habitually prefers lab two for whatever reason. On the way in he alters one of the security sensors to alert him if anyone else wanders down the corridor -- not enough warning to allow them to escape unnoticed, but enough time to alter their behavior to seem innocuous.  

Inside, the tiny room’s abnormally warm, the heat a byproduct of all the fridges and freezers lining the walls. Jordan’s sitting on top of a chest freezer, legs dangling down and clutching the appropriate cable and a hand mirror in his lap. Dorian hops up next to him and takes his hand, but otherwise waits patiently for Jordan to make the first move. He knows he hates uninitiated physical contact, which would violate one of the purposes for them to come down here in the first place. Jordan turns, and uses his free hand to slowly run his fingers down Dorian’s cheek onto his neck. At the predictable flashing red response, he smiles and squeezes Dorian’s hand.

_Your happiness is so beautiful, Dorian. Don’t even need the cable, just watching you brings me happiness too._

_Apparently it doesn’t take much for both of us. You really don’t have to do this, you know. We could try a third person again for the stimulation. You could just sit back and enjoy._

_It’s just not the same. You don’t feel as much love for anyone else, so the emotional response is not as strong. Even with someone willing to put up with your totally irrational adoration of body contact._

Dorian laughed, and scooted closer to gently lean their foreheads together. _Okay, I gave you an out. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something you don’t like._

_Don’t worry, Dorian. I guarantee if I ever don’t like something, you’ll be the first to know. Cable?_

Dorian pulls apart from him long enough to pop open Jordan’s right lateral data port above the hairline. The module they’re ultimately going for is buried behind the intricate hydraulics in the face, but a couple of months ago some 200 in another precinct came up with an ingenious software modification that allows them to jack into the more accessible right lateral junction instead. Basically they’re rerouting emotional processing through an access port, and connecting a high speed cable between them so Jordan can experience all of Dorian’s emotions as he does. The mirror’s to ease the final connection to Dorian’s junction, since there’s not an enormous amount of slack in the cable for Jordan to bend around to see. They end up facing each other, the cable wrapping around the back of Dorian’s head to his right side.

“Can you feel me?” Dorian vocalizes in a soft voice. The connection only flows one way; rumor has it a couple tried two cables to get the information to flow in both directions, and they nearly ended up frying their neural nets from the positive feedback. Jordan has his port  set to receive only emotions, since the tactile contact doesn’t appeal to him. For this they can’t hold hands, lest he receive a shadowy doubling of data, with a sluggish time lag in between.

“Yup. God, I would give anything for a proper bed to lounge on and a fifty-inch Z-8 cable.”

“I’d give anything to have four free hours a day with you. Free to do whatever we want. The SFPD can have the rest, I don’t think seventeen percent down time is too much to ask.

“Shhh, you’re talking out loud.” Jordan cups the right side of his face, below the cable junction, and buries his lips in his neck on the left. While stroking Dorian’s face and neck, he begins to murmur in a hushed voice. “Imagine we’re on vacation, and like you said, allowed to do whatever we want. Go wherever we want. So we decide to visit the beach. Up north, on a cold clear day without any people around.”

“I don’t have any files pertaining to beaches, should I look it up?” Dorian whispers. Despite this little interruption he’s already relaxed, leaning the untethered side of his face against Jordan’s. Under less risky circumstances he can imagine doing this without any clothes on, just lying stretched next to each other, touching the full length of their bodies. Jordan might not go for such a thing, but Dorian feels a little fantasizing doesn’t hurt.

“No, no, it doesn’t matter. The point is, we’re outside on a blanket, on a cool night to wick away any ambient heat from running around, choosing to lie down naked watching the stars.”

“Naked?” Dorian asks, delighted. Jordan rubs his lips back and forth along Dorian’s jawline as the delight streams in. “Were you just somehow listening to my thoughts?”

Without glancing down, Jordan runs a single index finger along Dorian’s palm, just enough to lob amusement at him. “I listen to you all the time. I know you. That’s the point of this, man. Provoking your wish fulfillment.”

“Hmm, I wonder what your wish fulfillment would be?”

“An exercise for next time. Hint: We’re doing it now.” They both laugh, with Jordan quaking a bit at the double-dose cocktail of humor, intimacy and love.

 

 


End file.
